Timothy Bradford
Ophelia’s Dream

Late at night, our feet rhyme
like buttons on a shirt.
First, the tops of mine
cupped in your arches, supine.
Then, your arches, prostrate,
over the tops of mine. Points
of contact change with position,
rhythm, but always the firm
metatarsi, the warm, taut
skin over the flex of the tendons,
and the delicate hairs on the toes,
brushed and brushing.